


Hail thee, festival day

by Emily_Nicaoidh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bumble - Freeform, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gryffindor!John, Hufflepuff!Sherlock, M/M, Mycroft is the Ministry of Magic, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Potterlock, Quidditchcaptain!John, Slytherin!Mycroft, They're at Hogwarts, drug references, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-06-08 15:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6861211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emily_Nicaoidh/pseuds/Emily_Nicaoidh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which wands and ties are misplaced and many confessions are made. Because in any incarnation in any universe, John and Sherlock will always find each other. </p>
<p>The morning after the first night together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A hint of smugness in his voice

**Author's Note:**

> Ok yall...here is the first chapter of a potterlock fic I'm writing.

“John.”  
“Jaaaaaaawn.”  
“John, you’re going to be late for class.”  
“Wossit?”

John Watson rubbed a hand across his eyes, not remembering at first where he was. Blue and yellow drapes hanging over the window? That couldn’t be right...His confusion vanished the moment he rolled over and saw the other person in the bed, and something warm and glowing settled itself in his chest. That’s right. Last night they had finally, finally...

Sherlock Holmes scratched his head and then burrowed deeper into the duvet.

“You fifth years are bloody lucky you don’t have classes this early,” John grumbled as he dressed.

“Well,” Sherlock sniffed, clearly thinking he sounded dignified. “Be that as it may, seventh year arithmancy starts in ten minutes on the opposite side of the castle.”

John muttered curses while he struggled into his tie, which did not seem to want him to knot it around his neck, and stuffed his feet into his shoes. There were condoms spilling out of his bag along with his books and wand, and he swept the lot unceremoniously back into the bag and threw it over his shoulder.

“Right. I’m off,“ he said, turning and pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, the only part of him currently visible above the duvet. “I...” he hesitated.

“Go, go,” Sherlock grumbled, his voice muffled slightly by the duvet. “You needn’t worry that I’m going to feel neglected or used just because you’re rushing off first thing in the morning.” That was exactly what John had been worried about, but the hint of smugness that had crept into Sherlock’s voice at the end convinced him otherwise.

“All right. I’ll see you later,” John said, and hurried out the door.

 

People were giving him odd looks in the hallway. A Ravenclaw sixth year whose name he didn’t know (but who he remembered had batted a bludger straight at his neck in their last Quidditch match) gave him an earnest thumbs-up as they passed each other on a staircase. A trio of seventh year Slytherins stared at him, open-mouthed and silent, as they walked by him in the hallway, and when he finally arrived at Arithmancy, Mike Stamford actually stood up from his seat to give him a high five. This rather put a damper on John’s intention to sneak into class, as he was already five minutes late.

“Watson! Late, I see. Five points form Gryffindor,” Professor Vector announced. “Now, everyone turn to page 394 and get out your wands and a protractor, and we will begin.” John fished around in his bag-no protractor. Typical. It was probably on the floor of the corner bedroom in Hufflepuff tower, along with his bottle of ink and ...oh, shit. And his wand. He had apparently grabbed Sherlock’s wand instead of his own in his semi-conscious rush to get out the door.

He glanced around furtively as he pulled Sherlock’s wand out of his bag, but fortunately nobody seemed to notice. Whether or not the wand would actually work for him was another story. The holly-and-kelpie-hair wand had sat on the shelf at Ollivander’s since before the current Ollivander was born, and at some point an Ollivander ancestor had replaced the proper label on its box with one that said simply “prickly wand, do not buy”. The wand that had chosen the younger Holmes brother had apparently been waiting for a wizard just as prickly and temperamental as itself. John’s own wand, made of oak-and-dragon-heartstring, was as solid and reliable as its wizard.

“Geometrical magic, as you all know, has a long and storied history, ” Professor Vector began. Professor Vector’s voice never failed to put John to sleep, and today was no exception.

  
John figured that he must have fallen asleep during Arithmancy, because the next he was aware, the classroom was empty and he was cradling Sherlock’s wand embarrassingly to his chest. His other arm stung and seemed to be asleep from leaning his head on it for too long.

Checking his watch, John found that he had slept through both his other morning classes and lunch, and was now almost late for Herbology. He stood and stretched, stuffed Sherlock’s wand and his Arithmancy book back into his bag, and began the trek down to the greenhouses.

“Nice one, Captain!” Jones, a beater on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, said, slapping him on the back.

“Uh, right, I gotta get to Herbology. See you at practice, mate,” John replied, pushing open the great hall doors and hurrying out onto the lawn.

By the time John pulled open the door of the greenhouse in which seventh year Herbology (fairly boring, but an absolute requirement for anyone wanting to go into the new Auror Medic training program after graduating Hogwarts, as John did), he was finally beginning to feel like himself again. All day long, he had felt wrong-footed and as if he was unaware of half of what was going on. Herbology class would fix that. John was good at it, and he usually shared whatever plant they were working on with Mike Stamford, who was easy to talk to and willing to help out with an occasional prank.

“All right, settle down everyone,” Professor Sprout called good-naturedly as she entered the greenhouse. “Since everyone in here either plans to go into healing or Auror medics, we’re going to go over something that will be a major part of your day-to-day jobs: medicinal herbs.”

John stifled a giggle. As a muggle-born, the phrase “medicinal herbs” meant something quite different to him than it did to most other witches and wizards.

Unfortunately, the class had actually settled down at Sprout’s command, and she heard his giggle loud and clear.

“Watson,” Professor Sprout called. “I would think that as a future Auror medic you would be very interested in medicinal herbs. I expect that you will be relying on them often in your work.“

“Er, yes ma’am,” John said, trying to regain composure.

“Or are you goofing off because you feel you’re already knowledgeable enough about medicinal herbs and don’t need to be here?” The head of Hufflepuff house regarded him sternly. John was, in fact, very familiar with medicinal herbs, both the wizarding kind and the muggle kind. He had mended many scrapes and magical injuries of Sherlock’s with the wizarding kind over the past few years. As for the muggle kind... he had brought only a small stash to Hogwarts with him, but he enjoyed smoking the occasional bowl on the weekends, usually with Sherlock. He generally abstained during Quidditch season, but in the summer he tended to indulge. Sherlock, on the other hand, had no such qualms and smoked as often as he could get his hands on his preferred variety of, er, medicinal herbs.

“Ah, no ma’am. I mean I’m very interested in them, ma’am,“ John said. He was glad there were no other muggle-borns in this classroom. They would probably have gotten an ulcer trying to restrain themselves from laughing just as much as John.

“Good. Now, let’s talk about the types of medicinal herbs you’ll need in field medicine...” John bit back another giggle and resolved to explain the joke to Mike (who looked thoroughly baffled at John’s sudden inability to breathe properly) later.


	2. the precious jewel of thy home return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That must be it. It must have been taken at some point during the night,”  
> Sherlock said seriously, to open guffaws from the Gryffindor table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from something John of Gaunt says to Henry Bollingbroke in Richard II, Act, 1, Scene 3. The full line is: ""The sullen passage of they weary steps/esteem as foil wherein thou art to set/the precious jewel of they home return."
> 
> Since this is a WIP, I'll also give an update on the progress of this fic here. You now have before you chapter two; chapter three has been written and is sitting on my hard drive, ready to be edited. I need sleep so that will not be happening tonight. Chapter four has been sketched out, and an epilogue has presented itself to me, so I've made a few notes on how I want that to go as well. Rest assured that I WILL be finishing this fic, because it is very dear to me. As always, THANK YOU lovely readers for sticking with me. I would love to read your thoughts/reactions/yelling about Johnlock in the comments if you are so inspired.

From Herbology, it was a short walk to Quidditch practice.

“Hey, well done Cap,” Bainbridge, the Gryffindor seeker said, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed John his broomstick and practice robes.

“Er...thanks, I guess?” John dropped his bag at the side of the field, then pulled off his robes and swapped them for his practice robes. “By the by, Bainbridge, what exactly are you talking about?”

Bainbridge’s response was less than enlightening. “Oh, you know, Cap,” he said with a wink, and hopped on his broomstick and flew off.

\---

John trudged into the great hall, exhausted from Quidditch practice, and plopped down on a bench at the end of the Gryffindor table.

“Evening, John,“ a familiar voice said.

“Hey, Sherlock,” John said, turning to face him. The fifth year’s hair was as messy as ever, but in an uncharacteristic move Sherlock was not wearing his house tie. Normally he was fastidious about the state of his school uniform, but today not only was his tie was missing, but the top two buttons of his shirt were undone.

“Ah, Sherlock...” John was not at all sure how to bring this up.

“What?” Sherlock said, nonplussed.

“Shouldn’t you put your tie on? You’ll get points taken from Hufflepuff if you’re caught without it,” John said.

\----

“Shouldn’t you put your tie on? You’ll get points taken from Hufflepuff if you’re caught without it,” John said.

Sherlock was about to protest that it was hardly his fault that he was not wearing his house tie, when--

“Oh,” he breathed as he figured it out. John looked confused. He should explain. He really should. He shouldn’t tease him about it, as the rest of the school undoubtedly has been doing all day long, judging from the tense set of John’s shoulders. John clearly hadn’t done it on purpose. And remarkably, John somehow did not know that he had done it at all.

“My tie seems to have been taken,” he said. “I don’t know where it could possibly have gotten to.” Sherlock hoped that his expression was still neutral. Someone he did not recognize at the Gryffindor table snickered loudly.

“Uh, well, do you know where you saw it last?” John was honestly trying to help. How perfectly John-like of him. Sherlock stifled a giggle.

“Well, I had it last night...”

“Do you think someone took it while you were asleep?“ Dear God John, did he really not know he was doing this?

“That must be it. It must have been taken at some point during the night,”  
Sherlock said seriously, to open guffaws from the Gryffindor table.

“Oh for the love of--” John turned around and faced his fellow Gryffindors, apparently catching the most obvious of Sherlock’s innuendos. “Will you lot lay off? Yes, we’re, um...“ he trailed off, not sure if Sherlock actually wanted to keep this a secret. They hadn’t talked about it, after all. They hadn’t talked about much of anything, to be honest.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock said. “Do look at what you are wearing.”

 

\---

“Come back to bed?” The question came out a whisper, softer even than Sherlock had intended. John glanced around them, worried they might be overheard, but the corridor was empty.

“Sherlock, I can’t just move into Hufflepuff tower. I actually am in a different house,” John replied.

“You’ll recall that there is, in fact, no password or indeed no security of any kind on the door to Hufflepuff tower,” Sherlock said archly. “Besides, if my pestilential brother intended you ill he would have acted already. Really, you should just move in with me. You know I don’t have roommates.”

John swallowed. He hadn’t told Sherlock about it at the time, but Sherlock’s “pestilential brother” had made the precariousness of John’s position very clear to him back in John’s fifth year, back when he and Sherlock had started the slow transition from best friends to...whatever they were now. The morning after the night when John had finally screwed up the courage to stand on his tiptoes and lean forward to press a kiss to the Hufflepuff boy’s messy curls and mumble “goodnight, love,” before turning and fleeing back to Gryffindor tower-- that morning, John had arrived at the Gryffindor table early, having spent the whole night pacing in his room, terrified that he had just utterly destroyed the most important friendship he had every had-- he had arrived early to breakfast, before most students were even awake, and had found a tall, unhappy looking man sitting in the chair next to John’s usual one. He had slid into his seat cautiously, sneaking sideways glances at the man, taking in his severe expression and green and silver striped tie.

“John Watson,” the man had said softly, not looking at him. John gave a little nod, unsure who this was and how he knew his name. “Muggle-born,” the man continued, taking a short holly wand from the breast pocket of his robes (bone white, trimmed with green) and laying it on the table beside his cup of tea. “Raised by a single parent, with a younger...sister, I would say, but the nickname she goes by is generally considered a boy’s name. Your sister’s a muggle like both your parents, and already showing the alcoholic tendencies that destroyed your parents’ relationship before you were born.”

John had shifted in his chair uncomfortably. “Do I-do I know you?” He had asked.

“And somehow, you, John Watson, in spite of your impure blood, you seem unaware of your place,” the man had said in a tone far milder than the words implied.

“Look, mate,” John had started, his face heating up, “you’ve got no right to--”

“You, John Watson, have no right to-“ the man had hissed, “if you cause harm to Sherlock Holmes through your association with him, do not be deluded: I will crush you with the level of vengeance only a wronged Slytherin can muster. ”

“Oh my God,” John had said, wonder and a little bit of fear in his voice. “You’re him. You’re his brother.“

“Yes,” Mycroft Holmes had replied coldly, eyeing John with distaste.

“Right, then,” John had said. Decision made, he had pushed his mug of tea away from himself, and in one of the moments in his life he was proudest of, had punched the pureblood git right in the face.

“You UTTER COCK! Do you have any idea what you did to him, hm?” John was aware that he was yelling at this point, but did not care in the slightest. “Going on about how Slytherin was the only house worth being in, and him getting sorted into Hufflepuff-I was there, the hat didn’t even touch his head, with a sorting that sure you must have had some idea beforehand how it would go--” John paused, sucking in a long breath. “He cried for months first year but I guess you wouldn’t know that, and he’s still ashamed of being a Hufflepuff THREE YEARS ON and that’s on you, you bloody git. THA’S ON YOU.”

Holmes had stared at him, utterly shocked by this development, and John had shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, before continuing in a softer, but no less angry, voice. “So you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to threaten me, Mycroft Holmes.”

At this, Mycroft had gathered what little remained of his dignity snatched his wand off the table, and turned and left.

“John, come on.” Sherlock had looped his hand through John’s elbow and was steering him towards Hufflepuff tower.

“Sherlock, wait.“ John gently peeled Sherlock’s hand off of his arm, holding the Hufflepuff’s hand in both of his for a moment, before turning to walk in the opposite direction, towards Gryffindor tower. He caught a glance of Sherlock’s face, and what he saw there reminded him of how terrified he himself had felt years ago, when he had first said _goodnight, love_ and suddenly he knew that he could never sleep apart from his mad Holmes ever again.

“Of course I’ll be your roommate, bumble. Starting tonight. ”


	3. Through a mirror, dimly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.” 1 Corinthians 13:12
> 
> John remembers an afternoon around the end of Sherlock's first year, back when there was something terrible about himself that Sherlock did not want John to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE ANGST  
> (there is not much angst)  
> (compared to some other fics of mine that shall remain nameless)  
> (thank you for reading!)

It didn’t take John long to pack. Growing up as a muggle meant he owned few magical things, apart from what was required for his classes and Quidditch, and John had always been tidy. His books and clothes lived permanently in his trunk, so it was only a matter of fishing some dirty socks and vests out from under his bed and…oh. And pulling that note from Sherlock out of his pillowcase. It was the first letter Sherlock had ever sent him (and he hadn’t sent many: once John had introduced the Holmes brothers to smartphones they were instantly hooked) over the summer after his third year.

 

“I don’t want to go back to Mycroft,” Sherlock had grumbled. The weather had turned warm early that year, and so John and Sherlock were sitting on the battlements above the Owlery.

 

“Why not? You’ll be able to work on your potions experiments all day long, with no other classes or students to worry about,” John had replied, flicking his wand at a stray flower petal that had settled on the rood and levitating it. It flipped over once or twice in the air and then he nudged it towards Sherlock, who scowled but did not reply.

 

John sent the petal closer and it bumped into the Hufflepuff boy’s nose.

 

“Come on, your house has to be brilliant. A wizarding mansion, almost as old as Hogwarts? What’s not to love?”

 

A fierce look came over Sherlock’s face, and he drew out his own wand, muttered an incantation that John _knew_ was not in the  Standard Book of Spells, Grade One, and caused the petal to smack John squarely in the forehead.

 

“A _Slytherin_ mansion, you mean.” He meant it to sound angry, but it just came out as sad. “Every Holmes since the beginning of Hogwarts has been a Slytherin. Every single one. And you think I want to go back there?” His friend’s eyes were shining with fat tears, one of which wobbled on his eyelashes, and suddenly John felt something crack apart in his chest.

 

“Oh, Sherlock…” he flicked his wand, taking control of the petal again. It drifted to Sherlock’s face, who though he eyed it warily, allowed the petal to float closer and to dab the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. “I know it’s been a hard year for you.”

 

“It hasn’t!” Sherlock shot back. “I love potions class. I love my room in Hufflepuff tower. I’m glad I’m a Hufflepuff,” he finished, glaring at John in defiance. “I hope everyone knows it! Sherlock Holmes, Hufflepuff! I’ll tell everyone in the world!” His knuckles were white where they clutched the prickly wand, and he slowly let out his breath.

 

“I think they probably know already,” John said, trying to lighten the mood. “Don’t your types put sorting announcements in the Daily Prophet?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “Yes, but not for me. Mycroft…he said we should keep this quiet. Nobody outside Hogwarts knows, really. I think he used one of the old family curses—if anyone tries to say anything about it, they won’t be able to.”

 

“What, like Secret-Keeping?” John asked. “Isn’t that a little…I dunno, overkill?”

 

“It’s not like Secret-Keeping at all,” Sherlock replied. “This curse is mainly about controlling a large population, and their access to information, keeping it suppressed…it works on the assumption that a few people already know, but doesn’t require the caster to have identified those individuals,” he finished.

 

John was quiet for a long moment, thinking.

 

“I’m sorry, but…your family terrifies me,” he said at last.

 

“They would be pleased to hear that, I think,” Sherlock replied. He stuck his wand back in his pocket, then plucked the now tear-sodden petal from the air. “Besides, you’ve met one of them already. And by all accounts, you weren’t terrified.”

 

“What? No, I haven’t,” John answered. He stared at Sherlock, unsure why his friend suddenly looked so queasy. “I’d remember something like that,” he finished.

 

“You’re three years older than me, but only two years ahead of me here at school. Care to remind me why that is?” Sherlock kept his tone light, but a degree of tension unlike anything John had seen before had crept into his eyes.

 

“You know why,” John said, his voice coming out a little more gruff than he had intended. “What should have been my first year was the year…the year the ministry fell. They interviewed all of us before we were sorted…us mudblood students, tried to force us to say we had stolen our magic from a wizard. I don’t know why. It was obvious at the beginning that they were never going to let us come to Hogwarts,” John said, his voice level now. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I got in the next year, after Potter killed him.”

 

“She, not they, John,” Sherlock said. “And your scar? You got it that year,” he continued, a flicker or something utterly unreadable in his eyes.

 

“Well…I’m not sure how you know that. But okay, you’re right. It wasn’t a they, it was a she. She interviewed all us mudbloods,” John corrected. “And yeah, I didn’t take well to her…tactics, and I kicked her in the shins. She cursed me pretty bad and it took me most of the year to recover. My shoulder didn’t heal pretty.”

 

“Dark curses that old never fully heal.” Sherlock’s voice was barely audible now.

 

“I don’t care,” John swore. “She deserved it. I’d do it again.”

 

“Oh, you are _such_ a Gryffindor,” Sherlock giggled. He couldn’t help it—it was such a Gryffindor, such a _John_ thing to say.

 

“Anyway, that doesn’t scare me. What does, a bit, is that at twelve years old you, Master Holmes, know so much about ancient Dark curses.” John paused and frowned. “And how did you know it was a dark curse she hit me with? Do you even know who she is? I don’t think I’ve ever told you…”

 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Sherlock said, his voice barely audible, his eyes very wide. “She bragged about it, what she’d done to you.” He paused. If John didn’t already know….but surely he suspected? If he said those words, it would be the death knell of their friendship. Surely no one could forgive a thing like that. No one should have to.

 

Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath.

 

“She bragged about it, at dinner that night. She’s Dolores Umbridge—she’s my aunt.” The last words were the barest whisper, and Sherlock gripped the petal in his hands and stared at it, not daring to raise his eyes to John.

 

There. He had said it, and the first friendship of his short life was now over. If his shoulders shook only a little he would have never admitted it.

 

A silence settled around them, wove between them, and still Sherlock did not dare to look at John.

 

“Now you listen to me, Holmes,” John began, his voice stern in a way that John had never directed at Sherlock before. Sherlock felt his shoulders tense, but he still refused to look at John. “If you think I am going to abandon you to those psychopaths for three entire months, you’re not--” John broke off.

 

Sherlock put his hands over his face and looked up, peeking at John from between his fingers. John’s face was red, and his eyes were angry, cold. This was it, then. The end of everything.

 

“I am coming with you, and you are not facing _that_ alone,” John finished. “I will hex anyone I have to hex. I don’t have to resort to shin-kicking anymore now I’ve got a wand and three years of Hogwarts under my belt.”

 

“I…you, what?” Sherlock asked, utterly bewildered.

 

John’s expression softened. “Don’t you know me, Holmes?” He asked. “I don’t care who your aunt is. I know you’re related to most of the Dark wizards in Britain. Hell, I looked it up once in those family trees they’ve got in the library—you’re You Know Who’s fourth cousin. I know what you come from. The point is, what kind of friend would I be if I left you to face all that alone?”

 

Sherlock dared another glance at John through the window of his fingers. His face was very serious, and he cold anger seemed to have returned to his eyes.

 

“Holmes--” John began, then gently pried Sherlock’s (sopping wet, when had that happened?) hands from his face. “I don’t care. I really don’t. And it’s not your fault. Come on, you were eight years old! You weren’t even there. But I’m here now, and I’m coming back with you. You shouldn’t have to do that alone.”

 

Sherlock huffed, a damp sort of sigh. “I do, actually,” he said. “There are curses on the estate preventing entry to all but pure-blood wizards.”

 

“Of course there are,” John said almost fondly, shaking his head. “Well, I will write to you. I’ll write every damn day.”

 

“No,” Sherlock said, a stubborn note creeping into his voice. “I’ll write to you first.” He rubbed his dripping nose on his shoulder, strangely feeling no need to extract his wet, undoubtedly slimy and disgusting hands from where John held them on his knees.

 

They said in silence, then for a long time. The sun began to set and eventually Sherlock sniffled and spoke.

 

“I’ll work on a potion, then,” he said. “I’ll invent one that will trick the curses, if you take it—make them think you aren’t muggle-born. Then you can come visit next summer.”

 

John laughed softly. “If anyone could do that it would be you. You would have made an amazing chemist, in the muggle world.”

 

“I am a chemist, _John_ ,” Sherlock insisted. “The principles of muggle chemistry and potion-making are astonishingly similar.”

 

\--

 

John smiled as his hand touched the letter. It had taken Sherlock two and a half summers, not one, but he had eventually perfected a potion (“Not polyjuice, John. Holmes curses can’t be fooled by something so simplistic,” Sherlock had scorned John’s early suggestions. “Of course they can’t be,” John had answered fondly) that had allowed John Watson, the first of his name, to set foot on the hallowed Holmes land.

 

This letter, then, the first of many that Sherlock had written to him, John had kept under his pillow for four years, until…

 

He raised the worn, folded parchment to his lips, kissed it once reverently, and then slipped it into the pocket of his robes. Its duty was done. Once he slept beside a letter, seeing only dimly, but now he would sleep face to face.


End file.
